


The Talk

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [49]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8338063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: Constance has been acting unusual of late. Aramis helps her with sorting out her feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



The whole world is made of fog. It’s wet, and cold, and thick enough to excite Tim Burton fans. Aramis doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this kind of weather on his way to work.

He clutches the bag with his lunchbox and thermos a little tighter and marches on, trying to make out obstacles in the gloom. A streetlamp hisses as he passes and flickers out behind him, making him twitch.

He’s glad that the way to the shop is comparatively short, even gladder that Porthos draped a scarf around his neck before he sent him off ten minutes ago. He’s never been overly fond of the miserable side of autumn, even if he’s ready to agree with Athos that this kind of weather is what makes staying indoors with your loved ones to cuddle even better.

The thing is, Aramis can’t stay home to cuddle. He has to go to work. Not only that, he has to teach d’Artagnan, has to watch him make puppy-eyes at Constance across the room and keep him from accidentally sewing his own finger to whatever fabric he’s working with.

It’s a little exhausting. Mostly because Constance seems to have forgotten that she’s decided to give the poor boy a chance. It’s not that she’s rude to him, it’s the opposite. She’s being _polite_. Reserved.

Constance has never been reserved with anyone for as long as Aramis has known her. It’s disorienting. Poor d’Artagnan doesn’t know how to deal with it at all.

Thus the atmosphere in the shop has been a little strained of late, adding to Aramis’ overall weariness. He’ll have to do something about it soon. Because Athos and Porthos have noticed that something is up, and history has taught Aramis that they will start to take action if he doesn’t get there first.

For once he’d like to actually do that, is the thing. Constance is his best friend. He should be able to talk to her - she deserves as much. She deserves, in fact, much more.

So Aramis takes care to not fall into any manholes on his way to work, but to arrive on time and with a smile on his face. It’s not even that difficult. The shop is warm and brightly lit, a comfortable bulwark against autumn’s nastiness.

Constance is already there when he steps inside, and he hurries over to her, gives her a hug after he’s shed his coat and scarf. “Urgh, your face is all cold,” she complains, rubbing her hands over his warm back to make up for it. “That’s a nice cardigan. Stole it from Porthos, did you?”

“I stole it from Athos, actually,” Aramis grins, straightening the rust-coloured fabric. “He was the one who stole it from Porthos.”

“That poor man is lucky he has anything left to wear with the two of you around,” Constance sighs. “Not that I blame you for wanting him naked at all times.”

That’s of course when d’Artagnan steps into shop, his ears a little red from the cold, or possibly from what he’s just heard.

Constance clears her throat. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he says, ducking his head, unusually shy.

Aramis wants to bang their heads together. Instead he walks over to the work area he now shares with d’Artagnan and disposes of his bag, puts it on the high shelf where it won’t get in the way.

“You’ll be happy to hear that we’re almost done with the tea party orders,” Constance says, her tone nothing but professional. “We’ll be able to return to normal work hours soon.”

Aramis feels relieved for about three seconds, then he remembers the soiree he’s promised to accompany Athos to. If things progress the way they did the last time he went out with him, work will never return to normal. He bites his lip. “Anything special you want us to work on today?”

“Yes, the pant-suit with the flashy vest please,” Constance says, settling down behind her design table. “It’s urgent.”

Aramis nods and takes d’Artagnan to the storage room at the back of the house, shows him the design and supervises as he cuts the fabric to size. It’s quiet work that requires all of their concentration, leaving no time for chit-chat. But once they have all the fabric they need and are on their way back to the front of the store, d’Artagnan clears his throat, stops Aramis by the simple means of grabbing his elbow.

“Can I ask you something?”

Aramis wants to yell no and hide; instead he musters a smile and a nod. “Of course. What is it?”

“Do you think she’ll fire me once you guys don’t need the extra help anymore?”

D’Artagnan sounds more resigned than apprehensive, and Aramis’ heart hurts in sympathy. Still. “She’d never do that. Ever,” he reassures d’Artagnan. “No matter what’s going on between you two on a private level.”

D’Artagnan sighs and resumes walking. “That’s a relief.”

Aramis looks at the back of his head for a long moment, and then he moves to follow him, aware of the heavy frown on his face and utterly unable to make it stop.

Constance notices as soon as he steps into the room, inclines her head - asks him what’s wrong with nothing but her eyes. Aramis shrugs, too frustrated and insecure to relay even the vaguest of answers.

He’s aware that this is not how he’s going to get there first. But then again he’s never been very good at calling people out on their bullshit. Not even the ones he happens to like quite a lot. God, this is depressing.

He shuffles back to his corner, sits down in his chair, and helps d’Artagnan to decide on the thread for the pantsuit. It’s a simple, straightforward design that won’t require any fiddly work, and can be handled by a trainee. Aramis will be making the flashy vest that will go with it - a dream of autumn colours to act as a contrast to the prim conservativeness of the rest of the suit.

Aramis has just decided on the same dark brown thread as d’Artagnan to hold the whole thing together when Constance suddenly looms up in front of the work table. “We need to talk. Come with me please.”

Aramis glances up at her. “You couldn’t decide on something else to say? It had to be the worst opening line of all time?”

Constance rolls her eyes at him. “What, are you afraid of me? What could I possibly do to you?”

“Don’t even get me started,” Aramis mutters, getting up from his chair. He perceives d’Artagnan going rigid beside him and pets his hair in an effort to soothe him. “You’ll be fine without me for a moment, yes?”

“Yeah, of course,” d’Artagnan says, turning his head to look up at him. “Just don’t stay away too long. I might start missing you.”

They smile at each other, and Constance clears her throat, turns away. “Are you coming, or what?”

Strangely enough, Aramis doesn’t feel any qualms about this at all. Probably because he can make an educated guess as to what it will be about. Possibly because he didn’t have to initiate it. Oh well. He’d wanted to have that talk with her anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

“Okay, I think d’Artagnan might now be sufficiently freaked out,” Aramis declares. He waits for the motion detectors to turn on the ceiling lamp before closing the door to the measuring room. Because if he doesn’t, he’d shut them in with the kind of windowless blackness he has the occasional nightmare about. “You couldn’t have picked a different time to have this conversation?”

Constance grabs him by the lapels of his cardigan while one of the muted lamps overhead buzzes soothingly. “I think I’m going crazy!”

Aramis blinks, and then very carefully removes her hands from his clothing and takes her into his arms. “What’s going on?” he asks once her head rests comfortably against his chest. “I thought you were fine with him being madly in love with you?”

“I was,” Constance moans into his cardigan. “Then I talked to my mother.”

Aramis gives her a little shake. “But we decided years ago that your mother, as lovely as she otherwise is, tends to pull a shroud of gloom over reality.”

“Yes,” Constance admits. “But this time she might actually be right.” She turns her head so she’s nose first against his body and lets go of a rather dramatic, if muffled, wail. “I could kick myself.”

“Why don’t you tell me what this is actually about,” Aramis suggests gently. “Maybe it’s not that bad after all.”

“Oh, but it is,” Constance grunts, all but inaudible with her nose squashed against Aramis’ chest. “Because my dear mother pointed out to me that I’m _exploiting_ the poor child. Not in a sexual way, mind you, which would merit a different circle of hell, but in terms of labour.”

Aramis decides that this is a good moment to grab her by the shoulders and bring some distance between them so he can actually understand what she’s saying.

“You’re paying him wages,” he states. Because first things first. “Very good wages even, considering he’s a trainee.”

“Yes, but he’s not here because fashion is what he dreams about at night!” Constance says, flushing with agitation. “He’s here because of _me_ , and I only took him on because I desperately needed the help, and he’s good with the books to boot - I’m taking advantage of the fact that he likes me!”

Part of Aramis wonders if this is what talking to himself feels like, and carefully clears his throat. “No.”

Constance narrows her eyes at him. “What do you mean, no?”

Aramis takes a deep breath and pulls her to the middle of the room and its collection of footstools customers climb on for having their measurements taken. He makes Constance sit on the highest one and takes the one next to it, takes her hands into his.

“This is still about him being younger than you,” he says.

Constance scrunches up her nose, denial carving lines into her forehead. “No, it isn’t.”

“Yes,” he insists, “it is. And can I just tell you, once and for all, that I would have been lucky, had my sexual career included someone like you? Because you are not the villain of this story, Constance, and you’ll never be. Women are allowed to take younger lovers - even when they’re madly in love with them and tend to put them first in their lives. You know why? Because they deserve it.”

He gives her hands a loving squeeze. “You deserve him, you hear me? And it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t dream about fashion at night - because I don’t either, but I still love working here. Let him dream about you; what’s the harm in that? No matter what you think, he is old enough to make his own decisions, and at this point I doubt that he’s going to change his mind about you.”

He looks into her eyes, wets his bottom lip, and goes on. “Because that’s all that matters, in the end. Either you want him just as much as he wants you, or you don’t. There will always be obstacles and what ifs - there will always be reasons why it might not work out, and trust me, I’m the world champion at coming up with every single one of them. But you were the one who told me to go out on that real life date and give Porthos a chance, and now I’m telling you to stop worrying and just go with your heart.”

Aramis stops then, because his face feels flushed and his tongue somewhat numb, and Constance is looking at him as if he’s grown a second head, possibly a third.

“Wow,” she says at length. “Where did all that come from?”

“I don’t know,” Aramis groans, collapsing into her side. “Please don’t make me do it again.”

“I won’t,” she promises, petting his head. “But I think I’m going to kill my mother for being a killjoy.”

“I’ll give you an alibi,” he offers weakly. She pets his head some more.

Eventually he rouses himself and clears his throat. “Not to make this about me, but I would be really happy if you started dating him. Officially.”

His reward is a tentative grin. “Oh, would it?”

He nods. “Immensely.”

Constance leans in to plant a kiss on his forehead. “You’re a sweetheart.”

Aramis closes his eyes and sighs, allows himself to bask in her warmth for a moment. “Can we make it official right away, please? Because he’s worrying enough as it is - he even asked me if you were going to fire him now that he’s not desperately needed anymore.”

“What?!” Constance barks, instantly and palpably incensed. “Is that what he thinks of me?”

“Well, to be fair, you’ve been rather cold to him lately,” Aramis points out. “Please don’t be angry with him. He’s allowed to get confused too, you know.”

Constance heaves a deep breath and rolls her eyes. “Fine, I won’t yell at him.” She looks at Aramis from the corner of her eyes and a fresh grin dimples her cheeks. “You’re really great at this, you know that? Thank you.”

He receives another kiss, this time on the cheek, and blushes a little. “I have great role models at home.”

“You sure do,” she agrees. “Shall we go back?”

So they return to the front of the shop, where d’Artagnan shows no sign of noticing their appearance, but continues to work, head diligently bent over the sewing machine. Aramis catches Constance looking at him, fond and tender and a little bit lustful.

He clears his throat. As does Constance. “D’Artagnan, do you have a moment?”

“See, so much better than the ‘we need to talk’ shtik,” Aramis mutters at her from the corner of his mouth. “A world of improvement, right there.” He levels a bright smile at d’Artagnan when he sees him get to his feet, face a surrealistic masterpiece of conflicting emotions. “No worries - you’re going to really like what’s about to happen.”

D’Artagnan is instantly wreathed in sunshine and smiles, and Constance utters a noise of frustration. “Excuse you! These are my news to tell!”

D’Artagnan has by this time advanced on her and is looking at her like a puppy eager to be petted. “Yes?”

Aramis hastily removes himself from their vicinity. Still he can’t but be aware of Constance taking d’Artagnan’s hands behind his back. It changes the whole atmosphere in the shop. “Do you want to have coffee with me this evening?”

“Always,” d’Artagnan replies, voice earnest to the point of proposing. “You must know that by now.”

“I do,” she admits. “Just making sure you’re free.”

When Aramis dares to look at them they’re still holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes, and he quietly resumes his work on the flashy autumn vest, trying not to poke himself with the needle or smile like a lunatic.

He’s just so happy, is the thing; just like he told Constance he would be. As nasty as the weather outside still is - having now added cold drizzle to the fog - the shop has become the coziest place on the planet.

While there are as of yet no kisses or other public displays of affection to be witnessed, it’s like a shroud has been removed from the sun that is Constance’s charisma. She’s glowing with joyful anticipation, keeps smiling at d’Artagnan and the world in general, while her happy suitor is pretty much bursting out of his seams in an effort to keep his bouncing bliss contained.

Aramis wants to snuggle them both, and he can’t wait to get home and relay the good news - can’t wait to be petted and kissed and spend another evening being as happy as he possibly could.


End file.
